The Sweet Life
by Derby
Summary: Each chapter focuses on a newsie couple (Yes, it's that story..). R & R & Enjoy!


A/N: Ok, I still have one day to go until I'm not suspended from ff.net anymore! (Well, by the time anyone sees this I won't.) Anywho, once again I'm starting a new fic, (eventually I'll get them all done.) and no, it's not a Mary-Sue, No, Yorkie doesn't get a lead guy (Or any guy at all actually), nor does everyone fall madly in love with her. Yay!  
  
Disclaimer: Yorkie is mine (No, not the dogs.) the plot isn't mine, and no matter how many times I strike outside of Disneyland, the newsies will never be mine.  
  
`*`*`*`*`  
  
The One Hundred Faces of Yorkie P  
  
"What I do to you, Netty? You want to runaway? Oy, don't you want to grow up and marry nice wealthy man? Be nice housewife? Have nice children?"  
  
That was the first thing my mother told me when I informed her I was running away to make my own life.  
  
"I give you everything! I give you motherly love, shelter, care, food and clothing? Now you run away?" She complained, trying to ladle me with an extra thick serving of guilt.  
  
"You named me Netty." I replied blandly.  
  
"Ey? Fine then. Be a child of demon and run away. A child who will not work, is no good. No good at all."  
  
She turned around and went back to tossing the creamy dough on the splintered table. My poor Italian mother with her grease shined hair back in a tight bun, face lined from years of hardship, she pretends not to care.  
  
I suppose I should introduce myself, it wouldn't be very 'lady-like' to leave you guessing would it?  
  
I am Netty J. Palacios, but I prefer to be called Yorkie. Why? Because of my love of New York.  
  
I live, or should I say used to live, in Little Italy in New York. Ah, Little Italy, where the laundry hangs drying from the windows, the neighbors are loud and the eternal smell of freshly baked bread lingers.  
  
My six brothers and sisters, and I care not to name them all, are all under the care of my dear, sweet mother in our tiny run down shack of a home. We Palacios are known for our independence, although I suspect that's not why my father ran away fifteen years ago.  
  
I am sixteen and on my own. I despise the tedious life I led in Little Italy; working in a lace factory with three hundred other girls, all equally ready to snitch to make an extra penny. I was certainly not cut out for lace making. My clumsy fingers don't work well with those tiny needles. More than once I've shrieked with pain as I stuck one of those hell-sent needles into my hand.  
  
So, as any think-first- ignore-the-consequences girl I ran away looking for a better life. And here I am now, living the high life! Sleeping on the streets, begging for food and selling dried flowers.  
  
This was not what I was expecting.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Every morning I wake up with the sun blaring like a soundless alarm into my eyes. I live here, there, most anywhere, usually alleys and fire escapes.  
  
I had been lucky enough to find a small job that required minimal talent. Mrs. Wick at Wick's Floristry had kindly let me sell her leftover flowers to make a few cents.  
  
True, flowers aren't the best industry to get involved in, but a few cheerful people will take pity on me and buy one. Others walk past in their gray world.  
  
Everyday I watch the newsboys (and occasional newsgirl) scream the headlines, playing and running. And despite their rough life, they manage to smile through the weeks worth of grime on their faces. What I wouldn't give to be as carefree as them.  
  
  
  
~*~*~  
  
Oct 15, 1899  
  
A pirate attacked me this morning. It was just after five am, I was going about my usual business collecting the previous days flowers from Mrs. Wick when a blonde pirate attacked me with a twig.  
  
Yes, a twig. I admit it.  
  
I doubt, however, that the pirate meant to attack me. You see I was following him to try and sell him a flower and he stopped abruptly. The twig in his hand stabbed me in my stomach quite hard.  
  
He apologized profusely but gave me a strange look (I suspect he noticed I was stalking him) and offered to buy a flower to make up for the miniature murder. (I suppose it wasn't quite a murder, but it sounds quite dramatic doesn't it?)  
  
He inquired my name, I replied with Yorkie. He looked a bit surprised.  
  
I asked him if he had ever been a mutineer or blew a ship to smithereens with a cannon. He blinked with his one visible eye and replied, "No." Then left.  
  
I noticed the pirate (I had not quite caught his name, so I shall call him BlondeBeard in honor of Bluebeard.) kept glancing at me sideways when he was walking away. I suppose he doesn't know what a mutineer is, perhaps they don't teach English on pirate ships.  
  
  
  
~*~*~  
  
Today has been quite the adventure. First I meet BlondeBeard and a few moments ago a bum ate a flower!  
  
I was selling flowers as usual, when a ragged, dirty, filthy bum with wild eyes and a dripping mouth hobbled up to me.  
  
"Ey, there goil. You'se wanna give me a flower?" He asked.  
  
"No. Would you like to give me some money?" I replied, skeptical he had any money.  
  
The bum surprised me by pulling out a penny and handing it to me. I plucked the driest, easiest to crumble flower from the bottom of the basket and presented it to him.  
  
He eyed me suspiciously, his eyes darting from the flower to my face. He sniffed the flower then ran a grimy finger along the stem, seemingly savoring it. My face turned a brilliant shade of crimson, what a scene.  
  
Finally, he stuffed the flower head into his mouth and walked away chewing contently.  
  
I must say I was surprised at first, but a new though struck me. Perhaps this bum was onto something. Surely flowers couldn't taste that bad, could they?  
  
And so, out of hunger, I reached into my basket and quickly took out a flower. Moving into an alley (As to be saved from disgrace) I nibbled at a petal.  
  
I choked and gagged, the perfumed dust gathering in my throat. It tasted much like a bar of Thorne's Wild rose Soap. I shan't be licking soap anytime soon.  
  
Despite hunger, I must remind myself not to eat flowers again. Bums are never right.  
  
  
  
---From the demented desk of Derby: Soooo. Review and let me know what you think! *Waves like an idiot* 


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